


Strange and Unknowable Hungers

by ruffboi, storyinmypocket



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Geralt Cares About Consent!, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Does Not Understand Why Everyone Cares So Much!, M/M, Multi, Rape Recovery, Sex Work, Sexual Slavery, Yennefer Also Cares About Consent!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyinmypocket/pseuds/storyinmypocket
Summary: Julian Alfred Pankratz had been fantasizing about serving as a pleasure slave since he was fourteen. After he was sold into a five-year term of service under an assumed name, his face hidden to preserve his family's dignity while his service paid his father's debts, he learned that even his fondest adolescent fantasies weren't enough to hold back the awful reality.But then his master gave him to a witcher in lieu of payment. Geralt of Rivia was gorgeous, kind in a rough-edged way, and completely ignorant of the fact that one does not justfreea Redanian slave before their term is up. Now he's the surprisingly willing slave of a master who doesn't want him, and his fantasies of Geralt are haunted by the memories of a thousand things he couldn't say no to. And then there's the sorceress.At least Geralt tolerates (likes???) his songs. He's got that going for him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 41
Kudos: 345





	1. Flesh for the Market

**Author's Note:**

> Please get your sex education from [Scarleteen](https://www.scarleteen.com/), not fanfiction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian goes to the auction house, but Jaskier's the one who gets bought.

The space behind the auction house stage was hot and stuffy, filled with too many bodies in too little clothing, most of them fighting tears or praying together in anxious little groups. Julian -- no, he reminded himself,  _ Jaskier _ \-- was, perhaps, not as nervous as he should have been, all things considered. Yes, he was looking at five years’ slavery, because his father never met a gambling den he didn’t fall into purse-first, and  _ yes, _ that probably meant he’d be sucking off someone awful on a daily basis, or getting bruised up for someone’s pleasure… But five years wasn’t all that long, and then he could put Jaskier aside, throw away the mask and hood he’d have to wear in public so as not to shame his family, and go back to being Julian Alfred Pankratz, back from studying abroad. It was a polite fiction, but anyone who dared hint at the truth would find themselves a social pariah before the day was out. It just wasn’t  _ done. _

Besides, there were laws to govern this sort of thing. No maiming, no broken bones, he had to be allowed regular sleep and adequate food, and he’d be expected to give a thorough report on his master after he was free. That report would factor into whether his master would be allowed to bid on another lovely young debt-stricken thing in the future, so while some of what he might have to do would be distasteful, his master would have every incentive to keep from doing him any real harm. It was an old system, one which had served the people of Redania well for centuries.

And really, there was something desperately exciting about the thought of being bought by a stranger. He knew that his fantasies were far from the reality of even Redania’s carefully regulated slavery, but his mind kept feeding him images of someone beautiful and cruel -- man or woman, it didn’t matter -- who would subject him to the most sublime torments, the most delicious humiliations, who would know what he needed without him having to say a word, who would use him in all the ways he’d first dreamed of as a boy of fourteen, all hormones and desperation.

_ Right. _ With his luck, he’d be bought by someone who needed his skill at mucking out stables.

“Iris!” shouted a voice behind the thick curtain, and a girl near him slid her mask into place and hurriedly tucked her dark hair beneath a flowing purple scarf. Her hair and face were hidden by law, just as his would be, but the rest of her was draped in something short and vaguely glittering, sheer enough to show the dark shadow of hair between her legs. And the view from the rear certainly left nothing to the imagination, either, all soft, dimpled curves. She’d undoubtedly fetch a good price, and Jaskier spared a prayer to Melitele, not for himself, but for her, that she’d be bought by someone kind. She had looked like she needed kindness, before the mask went on.

That done, he realized  _ why _ her name being called had struck him -- I before J, and that meant he was next. He checked his mask -- plain, white, covering his entire face, with just the suggestion of a nose, and lips very like his. He swept his hair back, making sure the warm gold fabric of the hood covered it completely. And then he looked down at the fabric draped around his waist. You couldn’t even call it a skirt, really, because that would imply it was long enough to do more than just barely cover his manhood. It was just there to be lifted out of the way by anyone curious enough to inspect him more thoroughly. It was blue and gold, and it would be up to his new master whether he wore it into the street. Unless…

Oh, sweet Melitele, what if no one bought him? What if he had to be put to work for the Crown, digging ditches and filling holes in the road and… carrying heavy rocks? Whatever it was Crown slaves did. He’d never really paid attention, but what if no one wanted him and he’d be expected to know what kind of awful menial tasks were ahead of him? What if--

“Jaskier!”   
  
_ Oh fuck. Oh shit.  _ He took a deep breath, released it, and raised his chin. He’d been the hero in countless impromptu childhood plays, he’d led elaborate pretend scenarios… This was just one more.

He didn’t walk out onto the display platform: he  _ sauntered, _ slow and deliberate, turning so that the crowd could see him, letting that tiny bit of fabric flare just a  _ touch _ before sinking onto his knees, lowering his eyes, the very  _ best _ of boys, and absolutely what any well-to-do member of society would want warming their bed. Beneath him, a simple mechanism turned the platform, letting him be examined from every angle by would-be buyers who were even now crowding close.   
  
He could hear the chuckle in the auctioneer’s voice. “And  _ this _ eager little flirt is Jaskier. He’s proficient with lute and dulcimer, has an excellent singing voice... though with lips like his, you’d be forgiven for finding other uses for his mouth. Skilled at pleasing both men and women,  _ and _ taking care of horses… Not in quite the same way, mind, but I won’t tell what you have him do in the stables if you don’t.”   
  
There was a scattering of laughter at the joke, crude as it was, and Jaskier could only think,  _ Please no stable work, please  _ **_please_ ** _ no stable work… I know I do it well, but I will gladly and enthusiastically be fucked by a horse for your amusement so long as I don’t have to clean up its shit afterward. _

Not that he had a choice in the matter. As the money had run out, he’d been the one to take care of his father’s horse, and the task had taken on the association of not just filth and sweat, but the horrible specter of public disgrace, the sick helpless feeling of watching his father sink deeper and deeper into debt and despair. He’d done it until one day the horse was gone, sold to mollify one loan shark or another. Knowing his way around a stable was a useful skill, one that might make him worth buying above some other spoiled noble brat. It was why he’d shared it with the auctioneer, but part of him still begged,  _ Anything but that. _

At least his father had sold the horse before selling  _ him. _ That had to mean something.

“Bidding starts at five thousand orens. Do I have five thousand? Come on, gentlemen and ladies, just look at those eyes. Such a lovely blue-- yes, five thousand, good, any other bids? You can have him shaved if you like; there’s the face of a cherub under that mask, that I promise you. Six thousand, thank you good sir!”

The auctioneer’s voice faded in and out for a while, mingling with crowd noise as Jaskier tried not to think of anything in particular. He chose to be put up as a pleasure slave, after all. It was what he’d fantasized about for the past four years. It had nothing to do with the fact that while it was up to each slave to decide whether or not they were available for sexual use, the pleasure slaves inevitably brought in more money, money which, minus a 20% tax, would be given to the slave after their term of service was over. Money which could provide a buffer against this happening again in the future, before they got too old for their parents to sell them without their consent. But it -- it was fine. It was what he wanted. It had nothing to do with how, even at the end of this term of service, he’d have another three years before he aged out of the system altogether.

“Come along, Jaskier.” The auctioneer’s voice broke into his reverie, and he quickly reviewed what he could remember of the past few minutes. This was… a private inspection. Private meant mask off, meant he would have to perform if necessary. Private also meant a deposit had been laid down that at the very least would cover his father’s debt.  _ Mission accomplished. _

He followed behind the buyer (not his master, not yet), his head down, trying to be meek. He wasn’t good at meek, as a rule, but he had to try. Even with a deposit, he still had to do his five years of service. Otherwise, his payment would be forfeit… and  _ anyone _ could snatch up an unwanted slave before their term was up, perfectly legally. While screening happened in the initial purchase, after that… anything could happen, and all that mattered was who held his release token. So he had to be good. He had to impress this man, one who was almost guaranteed to follow the rules, rather than take his chances elsewhere.

The inspection, such as it was, happened in a small room with a bed, sheets that had undoubtedly been clean when the day began, and a full-length mirror. The man (still unnamed) ripped off the mask and hood and examined Jaskier with the expression of a man evaluating a potential investment.

“You’re a pretty thing,” he said, taking hold of Jaskier’s chin and turning his face from one side to the other. “They weren’t lying about that much.” After a moment, he let go. “Going to show me how much you want to be bought?” he asked, and automatically Jaskier got to his knees, reaching for the man’s belt. The crack of a hand across his face stopped him before he could get the belt unfastened though, and he stared up at the man, confused, hot tears gathering in his eyes from the sudden pain.   
  
“Forgive me, sir, but what did I do wrong?” The tears might not have been remorse, but he’d play them that way if he had to.

The man snorted. “Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been I just wanted to hit you. But no. You haven’t earned my cock yet. Get my boots nice and clean for me. Use your tongue.”   
  
The boots in question were thickly covered with road dust, and there was a faint smell, as if he’d stepped in shit and scraped most of it off. Jaskier froze.

“Don’t tell me the little lord’s  _ too good _ to clean his master’s boots.” There was an implicit threat in those words, and Jaskier forced himself all the way down onto his hands and knees, licking at the dust, his mouth already dry, and his stomach churning.

It was exquisitely cruel, even if that cruelty was about what Jaskier represented, not who he was. It was almost,  _ almost _ enough for him to lose himself in a fantasy.

But not quite. Not when he could smell the faint traces of horseshit on the sole of one boot. Just on the sole, never under his tongue, for which he was grateful, but that smell never failed to remind him why he was here, and that he hadn’t chosen any of it.

He looked back up at his potential master, tears still in his eyes, careful not to let them fall on the newly-cleaned boots, and was rewarded with a smile.

“Good boy.” There was no real praise in that tone, no kindness, just a bitter kind of gloating. “ _ Now _ you can have what you wanted: a nice warm drink for your poor dry throat.” The man thumbed his belt open and unfastened his pants while Jaksier got up off his hands, kneeling up.

A small part of him, the part of him that still thought of itself as Julian, couldn’t help but growl in the back of his mind,  _ If this is a piss thing, I swear… _ But Jaskier ignored it. He had to be good. This man was going to buy him, and there were worse things than drinking piss.

It wasn’t that, though. It was reassuringly normal: an aggressively average-sized cock shoved down his throat, the obligatory bit of  _ remember who’s in control here _ face-fucking, during which Jaskier at one point pretended to choke helplessly, and then, finally, he got the chance to show off his skills.

With his eyes closed, it could be anyone. It could be the fantasy. And so he ducked his head under the man’s erection to take his balls into his mouth, one after the other, licking and sucking and moaning like a wanton whore, his tongue darting up and back to press at the space behind them, being rewarded with the sudden jump of the man’s cock against his cheek. Taking that as his cue to give it the attention it so desperately needed, he dragged his tongue up the shaft from root to tip, sucked the head into his mouth to better trace the edge of the glans with his tongue… and then, at least, showing off how deep he could swallow  _ without _ it being forced down his throat, humming softly.

It didn’t take long at all for him to get the warm drink he’d been promised, but after a single swallow, the man pulled back, coming all over Jaskier’s face and hair.

“Oh, did the little lord spill his drink?” the man asked, nothing but poison in his tone. “Leave it. Put the mask on. You’ll stay like that all the way home.”

“Sir, do you mean…?”

“I’ll fucking  _ tell _ you what I mean, so don’t you go asking,” the man snapped. And then he smiled. It was not a kind smile. “But best you get used to saying ‘master’.” He reached out with the toe of one boot and slowly, deliberately ground it into an erection Jaskier didn’t remember getting. It was an almost painful shock, not the contact, but what the contact meant, something that tore through the film of fantasy more violently than anything else had so far.

Julian --  _ Jaskier _ \-- wanted nothing more than to be violently ill. He sucked deep breaths in from between his teeth and tried to focus. Tried to ignore that the rough treatment wasn’t making his erection go down even a little. The man seemed to be waiting for a response, and while he couldn’t do permanent damage, he would definitely continue to make this hurt, so…

“Yes master,” he said, and the man took his foot away and made for the door of the room. Jaskier struggled to keep up, covering his face and hair, careful not to brush away the drying come.

He stood patiently while the man paid, and his identification tag and release token were stamped with his name and the date of his release.

“Want this on a necklace? A bracelet? A collar?” The staff at the auction house were always happy to offer new masters a wide variety of choices for tagging their property.

“A collar, I think,” the man said. “Best if you have one made from the skin of a pig. Dressing one filthy animal in the remains of another has a lovely symmetry to it, I find.” A few of the staff exchanged looks at that statement, but they’d had other masters of that type come through. Someone would make a note to make sure Jaskier wasn’t being abused, but if no laws were violated, that was that.

Information was taken down, the tag was riveted to the pigskin collar, and then the collar itself was locked, not to be removed until his term was up.

And so Jaskier became the property of Jarod Kaczmarek, silk merchant. And that, he reminded himself, was just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that, and still no Geralt! Rest assured, he'll be here in the next chapter, unwillingly doing the right thing. He's good like that.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I know this may be hard on some of you out there, so I hope you practice self-care if you need it. A lot of what Jaskier's doing here is trying to focus on the fantasy, telling himself it's what he wanted, telling himself this isn't traumatic, but it absolutely is, and this is digging up some stuff for me just writing it, so yeah. Take care of yourselves.
> 
> For those who are curious about aging out: people between the ages of 16 and 26 are eligible to be sold into limited-term slavery to pay their parents' debts. Jaskier is 18. Adults of any age can offer themselves to be sold for their own debts of the debts of a loved one, but once you turn 27, you can't be enslaved against your will.


	2. A Question of Payment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt doesn't want to be back in Redania, but he does very much want to get paid. It goes less than well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe like 50% of this chapter (and 90% of Geralt's dialogue) to [ruffboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi), who was kind enough to provide a Geralt for me to bounce off of over Discord when I realized I was too deep in Jaskier headspace to do it alone. In short, the exact opposite of what we did with [And Yet, Here We Are](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277634/chapters/55745920), where I do a good chunk of the Geralting.
> 
> Basically, they're awesome and I love them and you should read their stuff.

Geralt of Rivia was not having a good day. He hadn’t meant to take another job in Redania, not after Blaviken. It had only been eight years, and that wasn’t even close to enough time for rumors to die down, especially not when Stregobor had done such a good job of turning people against him.

All the same, a ghoul infestation along a major trade route wasn’t something he could ignore, especially when it came attached to a promise of pay substantial enough to make up for some of the work he’d lost due to propaganda and human terror. So he went out, he killed an obscene number of ghouls, earned what would probably be a new scar. It was what he was for.

Judging by the badly-concealed shock on the merchant’s face when he returned the next day, and the sharp smell of anxiety (layered over a smell of sex and human misery that he tried not to think on), he should’ve asked for half his payment in advance.

He opened the sack he’d brought, and started pulling ghoul heads out and dropping them, one by one.

“That’s six,” he said. “I ran out of room for the others.” Geralt had developed a knack for dropping a monster head at someone’s feet so that the lifeless eyes seemed to stare directly at whoever had hired him. It was an effective way of sending a message, that message being,  _ Pay your fucking witcher. _

He always wanted to believe it wouldn’t be necessary, but here he was, issuing the most subtle threat he was capable of in the hopes he could put this fucking place as far behind him as possible.

“Ah, you see, there’s a slight problem,” the merchant said. Geralt tried to remember his name. He didn’t usually bother remembering the details beyond where he had to go and who he had to speak to in order to get paid, but in this case…

...Kaczmarek. That was it. Kaczmarek, the self-important piece of shit who wasn’t going to pay him.

“Kaczmarek. I killed your ghouls. The last time I was in this country, it was in Blaviken, and I did  _ not _ have a good time there,” Geralt said, waiting for the telltale wince that showed the man had at least heard the stories.  _ “Pay me.” _

“I… do have a slave,” the merchant said.

“Not interested.”

“Wait! You don’t even know how much I paid for him. Not a small amount, by any means. One of the nobility, a little lord with his boot on everyone’s throat, but not anymore. Can you really say you wouldn’t want the chance to have your way with one of them? Especially a pretty little thing like mine? The softest mouth you can imagine, sings and plays the lute, a bit mouthy, but seeing him punished for it’s half the fun.”

“I like the nobility,” Geralt said, completely ignoring the fact that no, he really didn’t. “They pay me. In orens.”

He was fully ready to continue standing there being vaguely threatening until he got even a fraction of the pay he’d been promised, but of course, Kaczmarek had to keep talking.

“Listen, I know what witchers like. We’ve all heard the stories. This boy, you can leave him a bloody wreck, and he’ll beg you for more, pretty as you please, and lick your boots clean after. Beat him for an hour, and his cock’ll still be pointing at the sky. He  _ wants _ that kind of treatment, and how’s a kind and generous man to deny him that? Seems to me he’d suit you just fine, sir witcher.”

Fuck.

_...Fuck. _

“...Fuck,” he said. “Fine. I’ll take him. Have him get his things and meet me out here.”

“Of course, just a moment! ...I have a gag for him, if you want one?”

“No,” Geralt said, more an incoherent growl than a word, and the merchant took a step backward before he turned and made for the house.   


He watched as Kaczmarek disappeared inside. He wasn’t going in that house, wasn’t going to breathe the smell of the boy’s misery any more than he had to. He’d free the slave, chalk it up as a good deed that definitely wouldn’t go unpunished, and try to find some other way of keeping himself fed on his way out of the country. And if Kaczmarek wanted to think he’d won the witcher over by catering to his depraved appetites, that was fine. He’d been alive long enough to know that it was hardly unusual to feel physical pleasure at even the worst violations. Nerves responded to whatever stimuli they were given, no matter what the mind had to say about it, and if that was what the man was using to justify his mistreatment of a slave, then it was better for everyone if the boy was free and far away.

He moved away from the door, leaving the ghoul heads where they lay, and waited. It only took a couple of minutes before the door opened again, and Kaczmarek emerged, a more slender figure behind him. More slender, Geralt noticed, but not unmuscled. There was just enough softness to imply the physique was vanity or sport rather than hard work, but that made sense. The boy was noble, probably of the kind that liked to tap each other lightly with swords and call it fencing. He couldn’t see the face -- the boy was masked and hooded, and Geralt wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose was, considering he was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only rough linen pants that looked like they’d been spun and woven specifically to be as uncomfortable as possible. The boy looked up at him, and his eyes were an arresting shade of blue, but beyond that, it was hard to tell anything at all about him, even the color of his hair. There was no body hair that he could see, and that raised the question of whether he was naturally hairless, or whether it was an aesthetic choice on his former master’s part.

...Not that it mattered. He was freeing the boy, not asking to buy him a drink.

“Here.” Kaczmarek pressed a stamped metal tag into his hand. “There’s his name and release date. I wish you every joy of him. Pleasure doing business with you, sir witcher.” He turned, moving just a little too fast, and vanished into the house. The door slammed behind him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt read, then offered him the tag. “You’re free now. Do as you like.”   


“...What?” Jaskier didn’t sound relieved, or overjoyed, or any of the emotions Geralt would’ve thought to associate with someone who’d just been freed from slavery and abuse.  _ “What?” _ he repeated, slightly louder, before looking around in what was clearly a guilty reflex. “You… do you actually think that’s somehow helping me?”

Geralt said nothing. He wasn’t sure what there was  _ to _ say to that.

“It doesn’t work that way. I’m in service until the release date Mas--” Jaskier cut that word off abruptly. “The date Kaczmarek mentioned. If you give me that tag and cut me loose, I’m legally property of anyone who finds me and wants me until then. No oversight, no records showing to whom I was given -- someone has the tag, so it’s legal until my release date, and after… That’s how people disappear. So if you’re not going to keep me, if you really want to do the noble thing,  _ give me back. _ At least with him, the authorities will know where I am, and I  _ probably _ won’t end up dead in a ditch!”

Geralt watched Jaskier, still refusing to take the tag from him, though his eyes were wide after his outburst, and he smelled of steadily growing panic.  _ A bit mouthy, _ Kaczmarek had said, and that was obviously true, but also reassuring after what he’d heard. No matter what else had happened, there was still someone in there who wasn’t completely broken.

...Someone he was, apparently, now responsible for, if the alternative was giving him back to that bastard.

Fuck.

“Look, I can play, sing, suck your cock, take a beating… take care of your horse…”

“All right,” he said, before Jaskier could continue listing things Geralt didn’t need him to do. “You can travel with me.” He paused, weighing the clear reluctance in that last offer. “And don’t touch Roach.”

Jaskier bowed his head slightly, his voice bleeding relief. “Thank you, Master.”

_ “Don’t _ call me that.” It came out harsh, maybe too harsh from the way Jaskier froze, but the boy recovered a moment later.

“You... literally own me right now. I am your property. What would you prefer I call you?” Jaskier sounded uneasy still, thrown off-balance by all of this -- though not as much as Geralt himself was.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and growled a little under his breath. “Not by choice. Just. Geralt. Geralt is fine. Act like you would if this  _ owning _ thing wasn’t an issue.”

Jaskier was clearly uncomfortable with this, though Geralt wasn’t entirely sure why. “And… if I do something wrong?” he asked, sounding hesitant, smelling afraid still.

What… what was he supposed to say? “...Apologize.” That seemed reasonable enough.

“Yes, Geralt.” Jaskier’s tone was exactly what it was when he’d been using the word  _ master, _ but the effect was… somewhat different.

His name, said by  _ that voice, _ in  _ that tone, _ like he was the center of someone’s world... Geralt hated himself for the thought as soon as he had it. From the way Kaczmarek spoke, Jaskier was painfully young and clearly conditioned to obey whoever his master was. To take advantage of that, no matter how sweet his voice sounded, would be completely fucking reprehensible.

“You don’t--” Geralt couldn’t help the frustrated sigh that escaped him. “You’re just a person. Not my property. We’re waiting this out, is all.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask, and Geralt was sure there was something very expressive happening where he couldn’t see. What it was, he had no idea.

“Do you... have to wear all that?” He gestured at the mask and hood.

“By law, yes, so long as I’m in a public place within the borders of Redania. So I don’t shame my father.” Jaskier shrugged. “In another four and a half years, I’ll throw the mask away and get the name I was born with back, and everyone will pretend I just went to study abroad for a while.”

Geralt made a noise under his breath, an acknowledgment that was the farthest thing possible from approval. “You have boots? I travel. You’ll walk a lot.” The easiest way to deal with laws that made no sense was to go where the laws weren’t. After all, they could hardly stop a witcher from doing his work just because he happened to own one of their enslaved teenagers, especially when, if Jaskier was to be believed, no one bothered tracking the enslaved teenagers past the first buyer. Though really, part of him hoped someone would try stopping him from taking Jaskier somewhere sane. They’d fail, but oh, he wanted them to try.

...He really,  _ really _ hated Redania.

“I have boots,” Jaskier said. “Not ones made for walking, though. Just for looking pretty and forcing me to move delicately whether I want to or not. I’d be better off going barefoot.” He paused. “Technically they’re yours now. You could sell them if you wanted. You’d get a decent price.”

Geralt shook his head. “Sell them yourself, or keep them. I’ll get you boots you can walk in.” More money he couldn’t afford to lose, but he wouldn’t steal from the boy just to get him what he needed to survive a situation he had no choice in.

“...If that’s what you want.” Jaskier sounded dubious.

“They’re yours,” Geralt said, his voice dropping to a growl again. This was too much talking, and Jaskier kept insisting on deferring to him, and he didn’t know what to fucking  _ do _ with all this.

Though for once, Jaskier didn’t flinch, instead turning to look back towards the house. “Oh, there’s my--  _ my lute!” _ Jaskier broke into a sprint as one of the servants unceremoniously tossed his belongings, lute case included, onto the carefully cut grass, amidst all the ghoul heads. Holding his mask in place with one hand, he caught the lute case in the other before it could hit the ground, cradling it to his chest.

The hood had fallen back while Jaskier ran, revealing brown hair with a slight wave to it. The color was… nice. It looked soft. And then Jaskier brought the hood up, almost frantically, and Geralt reminded himself these were not the kind of thoughts he wanted to be having about someone who was technically a slave. Technically  _ his _ slave.

He’d pay for some company for the night next time he had the orens to spare, and that would stop him thinking about boys with pretty hair and pretty eyes and pretty voices who were completely off-limits.

More importantly, the way Jaskier had run to save the lute made him think that it, at least, actually belonged to whoever Jaskier had been before he took that name. He’d have to be careful with it. Make sure Jaskier had all he needed to keep it properly maintained.

He moved to help Jaskier gather the rest of his possessions, moving with the kind of care and delicacy he usually reserved for stealth or killing. There probably wasn’t anything else that belonged to Jaskier from before, but those things were still his, effectively the only possessions he had in the world.

“You... don’t have to do that,” Jaskier said, that same uneasiness in his voice that Geralt was coming to realize meant he wasn’t dealing well with being treated like a person.

“Hm.” He declined to comment further, just gathering things and packing them away as neatly as he could.

“Thank you, Geralt.” The words came after several sidelong glances, and when Jaskier continued, he sounded more uncertain than ever. “Do you know the laws about how I’m supposed to be treated? There’s not really any way they can be enforced if you’re traveling, but I thought you might want to know?”

Because apparently treating people like people wasn’t complicated enough. “I don’t. Know. I should.” He sounded irritable, but that wasn’t enough to make Jaskier see him as a threat at the moment, so he’d take what he could get.

“Well. No maiming, no broken bones. If I'm injured or sick, you're responsible for any medical care I need, as well as making sure I get two meals a day and at least six hours of sleep a night. When I'm free, I'm to report on my masters, let the Auction House staff know how I was treated, and that can influence whether or not you or Kaczmarek are allowed to bid on anyone else cute and desperate next time around. Not that I think you would, unless... you... don't like men?” Jaskier coughed abruptly and turned away. “I mean. You. Never mind.  _ Anyway, _ I know this wasn't what you signed on for. Kaczmarek was betting on you dying so he wouldn't have to pay up, and… you got me instead of something you actually want. So, law or not, I don't really  _ mind _ if you want me to pay my own way. I could service the locals wherever you end up going, make enough to cover my expenses…”

_ “No.” _ The word came out too hard, snarled more than said, and Jaskier flinched and froze in place, waiting to be given permission to move, or speak, or… exist, for all Geralt knew. He took a deep breath and started again. “Not on my orders. If you want money, fix roofs. Rock babies for exhausted mothers.” He gestured at the lute case. “Be a  _ bard, _ for all I care. But that’s for you.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Jaskier said, his tone just slightly nervous, though he seemed to be moving with extra grace as he kept loading his things into a pack, as if to make up for freezing a moment ago. “The bard thing. I know it's the obvious choice for a man who carries a lute, just. That was what I was going to do once I graduated from the University. Spend a few years trying to make it as a wandering bard before going back to teach like everyone expected. Looks like I’m going to get my wish, after all.”

Geralt just let him talk, focusing on folding Jaskier’s things as neatly as he could. Some of the… costumes he had weren’t going to be practical on the road. It didn’t matter. He could do with them as he liked.

“I'm sorry,” he said at last. “For snapping. I shouldn't have. Do my best not to again.” He scrubbed his hands on his pants, hoping it didn’t look like nervous fidgeting. It was, but someone needed to seem confident, and right now it wasn’t going to be the slave-who-should-have-been-a-bard. “Heard from a reliable source my bark's worse than my bite.”  _ Thanks for that, Eskel.  _ But then, it was something to say to a frightened boy, so there was at least some good coming out of Eskel’s sad attempts at humor. “I won’t hurt you, though,” he added. “I swear on my life.”

There was an unhappiness in Jaskier’s eyes, his posture, his scent, but it could’ve been one of so many things, and Geralt didn’t feel qualified to guess.

“…That’s very kind of you,” Jaskier said. “Thank you.”

Geralt had to fight back another stab of anger at the thought that not hurting the boy was something he needed to be thanked for. Instead, he tried to focus on practical matters. “..You can ride until we get into town and get your boots.” Wait. He should say something more. Make sure he was letting Jaskier know his choice mattered. “If you want,” he added. Perfect.

There was a long pause. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to walk into town while your slave rides,” Jaskier said at last. “If I could ride until we’re about a mile out, and walk from there, though, I… I would appreciate that, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted and strapped Jaskier’s pack to Roach’s saddle alongside his own. He was trying to think or practical things -- really, the boots were only the beginning. Jaskier would need socks. A bedroll. A mess kit, too. A decent cloak…

“Half a mile,” he said. “Need a leg up?”

“Half a mile.” Jaskier sounded more relaxed, almost as though he could have been smiling. “And I think I’m all right, Geralt, thank you.” He pulled himself into the saddle in a motion that was mostly smooth, though there was a slight hint of stiffness to it, a somewhat abrupt inhalation, that made Geralt remember what Kaczmarek said about beating the boy. He had a salve that might help. He’d mention it when they stopped to rest.

Meanwhile, Jaskier was ignoring Geralt’s scrutiny to give Roach some gentle pats. “Hello, Roach,” he murmured. “I’m given to understand it’s an honor to be up here. I promise I’ll do my very best not to offend.”

Geralt couldn’t hold back the faintest smile at the sight of Jaskier sweet-talking his horse. Roach, for her part, seemed deeply suspicious of her new rider, but not suspicious enough to try and take said rider’s toes off with her teeth. Really, that made it an unqualified success on Jaskier’s part.

“C’mon, Roach.” Geralt took her lead and started walking, still smiling… until the slow realization started spreading though him that Jaskier hadn’t even taken off his mask yet, and when that happened…

When that happened, Geralt would be in real trouble.

_ Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~...Nice lute you got there, Jaskier. Be a shame if some elves were to... _happen_ to it in a few chapters.~~
> 
> Back to Jaskier PoV in the next chapter, in which we learn what's got the poor boy so distressed. Other than... you know. Everything.


End file.
